“I don’t see anything out there but the evening,” said Ben Crosby.
“Ice!” cried the man, very agitated. “Ice!”
“What do you want ice for?” asked Ben Crosby.
The man made eloquent gestures; first he pointed at his own face, then he pointed outside; his index finger stabbed at the gloom once, twice, a dozen quick times.
“Ice! ice! ice! ice! ice! ice!” he said.
“Why, Ben, he means ‘eyes,’ ” exclaimed Mrs. Crosby.
“Eyes? What eyes, Hannah? I don’t see any eyes. There’s nothing out there but lightning-bugs.”
One of the circling fireflies flew quite near the open door. The small man saw it coming, and made an earnest, but only partly successful, attempt to climb into the grandfather’s clock that stood in the corner of the hall.
Ben Crosby threw back his head and laughed.
“Why, dog my cats! if the little cuss ain’t afraid of lightning-bugs!” he said. “Hey, Velvet Pants, look here.”